


The Science Of Family

by deducingontheroof, lover_of_all_awesome_things



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sixteen years later, Tags Omitted And To Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 23:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16005878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deducingontheroof/pseuds/deducingontheroof, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lover_of_all_awesome_things/pseuds/lover_of_all_awesome_things
Summary: Sixteen years ago, shortly after their wedding, John and Mary Watson ceased to exist. John and Mary Hoodson, however, did not. They went into hiding with their newborn daughter.Now, recently orphaned, the teenage daughter of John and Mary Hoodson is sent to live with Sherlock. Robyn is introduced to his world of deductions and crime, and Sherlock is introduced to the equally complicated world of a teenage girl.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey!! i haven't written a sherlock fic in years, but i would never pass up a chance to collab with my best friend!! i hope you guys enjoy this, we've got some really exciting stuff planned for you!! <3  
> -charlie/deducingontheroof
> 
> Hey guys!!! Thanks for reading our fic! We are so excited for you to go on this adventure with us! Be prepared to be in this for the long haul! As we outlined this, we kept joking that we had basically written a season! I hope you enjoy this!  
> -lover_of_all_awesome_things
> 
> Please note, we are alternating on who writes which chapter. The chapters written from Sherlock's point of view were written by Deducingontheroof while the chapters written from Robyn's point of view were written by Lover_of_all_awesome_things

Robyn POV

My lungs and legs burned as I raced past trees and bushes. I could taste blood at the back of my throat as I pushed myself harder. I was out of shape and had just taken up running recently, so my body was punishing me.

 

I enjoyed the pain; actually, I reveled in it. It was a physical representation of what I felt inside. As I ran, I could for a second imagine that I could outrun my past, outrun my life. When the wind was blowing through my hair, I was untouchable.

 

When I stopped like I eventually always had to do, it all caught up. All the memories, all the pain came rushing back. I doubled over, put my hands on my knees and caught my breath. I focused on my breathing as images of my parents filled mind. My Dad's salt and pepper hair and his quirky smile. My Mom's blonde hair and her don't mess with me attitude. Our car...

 

Just as quickly images I hated popped up. The drunk driver, my Dad swerving, the tree, the blood. I can still remember regaining consciousness and yelling at them to wake up. The fireman pulling me from the car, the silver blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Two black bags on stretchers.

 

Like so many times in the past six months, my eyes started to water. As desperately as I tried to keep them in, they just flowed out. I gave myself two minutes to cry, but no more. I had to keep living. Two minutes, then I would plaster a smile on my face. Two minutes, then I'd say, I'm fine. Two minutes to fall apart, then the rest of my life to bring myself back together.

 

My two minutes of mourning were interrupted by my shrill ringtone. Hastily wiping my eyes, I saw it was my social worker and pressed the green answer button.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Hi Robyn, how are you?" A woman's voice spoke from my phone.

 

"I'm fine thanks, how are you, Kate?" I asked in what I hoped was a cheerful voice.

 

"I'm good. Robyn, I have some important news, where are you? Let me pick you up. We need to talk."

 

"I'm out on a run and I'm all sweaty. Can you pick me up in about 45 minutes so I can go home and shower?" I asked.

 

"Sure, I'll pick you up at the Bley's at 2:30." Kate replied.

 

"OK, sounds good. See you then. Bye." I ended the call.

 

Tucking my phone back into my pocket and putting my headphones in, I started my run back home. Or rather to the Bley's home. They had been fostering me for the past 4 months.

 

They were my second foster home in 6 months. After my parents died leaving me with no living relatives, I was put in the system. I had trouble adjusting to my home with the Cook's, and within two months I was transfered. The Bley's were nice enough, I suppose. They gave me my space and let me grieve while they got paid so it was a fair arrangement.

 

Soon enough, I was back in the neighbourhood, running along the white picket fences which I couldn't believe were actually a thing here. They completely contrasted my current life. White picket fences were supposed to represent normality and simplicity, but my life was anything but. Nothing has been normal or simple since the car accident.

 

One could not pick out the Bley's house. It looked like every other house on the block. White house, brown shingles, and a perfectly manicured yard. Only the house numbers gave any uniqueness to the homes. Take those away and it would look like someone had simply copy and pasted every house here.

 

I turned onto the Bley's perfect walkway, then let myself in. The door stuck a little as usual--the first sign of imperfection, but otherwise, everything was normal. I put my shoes and coat in the closet before heading up stairs.

 

The house was empty as both Mr. and Mrs. Bley were at work even though it was a Saturday. I didn't mind being alone, it meant I could shower in peace. As I stood in the shower and let the hot water loosen my muscles and wash away my sweat, I thought.

 

Why did Kate want to see me so urgently? Was I being transfered again? I doubted it because I thought everything was going well here. Maybe she had found a long lost relative, a great aunt or something. I didn't want to get my hopes up, so I started thinking that maybe it was a new group for me to join. Kate kept trying to get me to talk to other people about my feelings. As if that would make any difference. I certainly felt them, I wasn't a shell of a person, but I didn't want to discuss my innermost thoughts with strangers. Yes, I'm an orphan, yes I'm dealing, no I don't want to talk.

 

I got out of the shower and put on some fresh clothes. A worn pair of jeans, a basic blue t-shirt, a flannel, a sweater, and a small heart shaped necklace- the last present my mom ever gave me. It was September in Alberta and the weather was always unpredictable. In fall, it was always best to go with light layers.

 

I grabbed my purse, my really worn copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and went back downstairs to the front room to wait. I started to read, but I basically knew the entire book word for word. I only got to keep a backpack full of stuff from my life, and Harry Potter was my only book I saved. I don't know what happened to the rest of the series, or my stuff. Maybe it was donated, maybe sold. Maybe there's another little girl reading my books without a care about its previous owner. The Prisoner of Azkaban and my small heart shaped necklace were my biggest ties to my old life. A life now gone...

 

The doorbell knocked me out of my reminiscing. I jumped out of my seat and walked to the door. There waiting for me was a woman with a brown bob, a kind face, and a perfect pantsuit. I'd never seen Kate with a hair out of place. She must use a whole can of hair spray to make her bob so flawless.

 

"Hey, Kate."

 

"Robyn, are you ready to go?" Kate asked with a smile.

 

"One sec." I quickly ran back to my chair to stuff my book in my purse, then I was back at the door in less than thirty seconds. "Now I am."

 

"Great, let's go. I'm going to bring you to my office where we can talk."

 

I locked the door behind us and asked, "Can you give me a hint about what this is all about?"

 

"Spoilers." Kate smiled. "You'll just have to wait and see."

 

I sighed, "Alright."

 

The drive took us about half an hour, but we didn't talk much. Kate turned on the radio to my favourite country music radio station, and I serenaded her with my carpool karaoke skills.

 

We arrived at her office and parked in the parkade. The building was very professional and impersonal, it was covered completely in windows. We walked through the lobby to the elevators. At the 19th floor, we got out and turned left towards her office.

 

There were many social workers and orphans in the office. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone because I hated to see the emotionless, and those consumed with pain. So I looked at my feet as we walked. We got to Kate's desk and sat down.

 

"Now will you tell me what's going on?" I inquired.

 

"So, Robyn, how have you been enjoying the foster system so far?" Kate asked cheerfully.

 

My eyebrows lifted and my head dropped as I looked at her over the rims of my glasses. "If anyone has ever told you that they've enjoyed it, they are crazy, naive, or both. And since I'm neither, I think you can ascertain my answer."

 

Kate chuckled. "That's a typical response, though most teenagers add a few more colourful words to their answer."

 

I smirked and rolled my eyes.

 

"The reason why you are in the foster system is because you don't have any living family. Both your parents were orphaned without siblings. Their extended family is also nonexistent. Typically in such cases, you would go to your godparents, but they didn't record your godparents in their most recent will." Kate said.

 

"Yeah, I know all this. You think I don't know the reasoning behind why I was chucked in the system?" I started to get a little annoyed.

 

Kate gave me a half smile. "I know you know, I just wanted to give you some background for when I tell you the news."

 

"What news?"

 

"I'm getting to that. One of the interns here was looking at your file and had the unusual idea of looking at previous wills. Typically parents record guardians in all or none, they don't typically just stop adding it to their wills. However, your parents didn't follow that rule. In their very first will after you were born, they recorded your godparents. Your godfather, and your primary guardian, is a man named Sherlock Holmes."

 

I just sat there. I felt like Kate had just dropped a bombshell in my head and obliviated all thought. I blinked as I processed.

 

"I have godparents?"

 

"Yes, you do. And I've arranged a call with Mr. Holmes in five minutes. I wanted to wait to tell you before I informed him of his new responsibility. Would you like to be a part of the call? Would you like to talk to him?" Kate asked.

 

"I— yes." I nodded.

 

"I know it's a lot to process, but you're getting out of the system!" Kate smiled and looked genuinely excited for me. "Although,"

 

"Although? There's an although?" I asked, slightly alarmed.

 

"Mr. Holmes lives in London."

 

"So I'm moving to Ontario?" My mind raced. I've never been to Ontario, I've actually never been to another Canadian province before. As nervous as I was, I was kind of excited.

 

"No, not Ontario. England."

 

"Wait, what?! London, England?" I balked.

 

"I know it will be a transition, but you'll finally have a permanent home." Kate said in a sympathetic voice.

 

"I, cross the Atlantic? It's a whole new culture, a new everything. Though at least the language is the same. But still! Everything will be foreign to me!"

 

"Oh, it's 3:15 now, so it's 10:15 in London. It's time for us to call Mr. Holmes." Kate said.

 

Kate pulled out a piece of paper with a phone number on it and dialled it into the old corded phone she had on her desk. She hit the speakerphone button and we both waited anxiously as the phone rang.

 

"Hello?" A distinctly male voice answered.

 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes? It's Kate Mulgrowe."

 

"Oh, yes, Ms. Mulgrowe. Please call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my brother."

 

"Alright, Sherlock."

 

"You requested an urgent meeting with me? For what reason?"

 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I have some rather life altering news for you."

 

"Ms. Mulgrowe, rarely is life altering news actually life altering. That term is extremely overused." Sherlock did not sound amused. If anything he sounded bored.

 

"Well, Sherlock, I'm positive that this is really life altering news. You know John and Mary Hoodson?"

 

There was a slight pause before Sherlock responded, "Yes."

 

"They died six months ago leaving behind a child."

 

"Robyn." I was slightly surprised to hear this strange man know me by name. I had just assumed that he wasn't aware of my existence and that's why I never met him and why he didn't contact me after my parents death, yet here he was saying my name.

 

"Yes, Robyn. She's 16 years old and in an old will, you're listed as her godfather. Were you aware of this?" Kate asked.

 

"I was."

 

"Well, Sherlock, you are now Robyn Hoodson's legal guardian. Are you prepared to accept her into your life?"

 

I held my breath as I waited for him to answer. This was the big question. The life altering question. I didn't know what I'd do if he said no. Could he say no? But even if he was forced to take me after saying no, I wasn't sure if I'd want to live with a man who didn't want me.

 

"Yes. I am prepared to take in my best friend's child."

 

I breathed out in relief. Though, best friend? Why had I never heard of him?

 

"That's excellent to hear. She's been in the foster system the past six months and anxious to get out. A social service worker will be coming to your home to inspect it and give you more information about being a guardian. You have have to pass their inspection, which shouldn't be a problem, but assuming that everything checks out, Robyn will be coming within two weeks."

 

"OK. May I ask from where Robyn is coming from?"

 

"Okotoks, Alberta."

 

"Canada." I detected a hint of awe in Sherlock's voice.

 

"Yes. Oh, and Sherlock, I have Robyn right here with me. Would you like to speak to her?" Kate asked.

 

"Yes, I would."

 

Kate gestured for me to speak and so I took and deep breath and said, "Hi."

 

"Hello Robyn."

 

"Hi." I froze. What do I say to my godfather that I'd never met before? What do I say to my parents best friend? What do I say to the man I'm going to live with?

 

"Hello." Sherlock said a little bit slower.

 

I felt like the walls were beginning to close in on me. My breathing became rapid and shallow. My stomach felt like it had dropped down to my feet and I became extremely nauseated. I could feel my whole body start to shake. Feeling a panic attack starting to come on, I bolted out of the office leaving Kate to deal with my godfather.

 

I couldn't breath, I couldn't think. I just needed to move. I dashed toward to the stairway and started running downstairs. Tears welled in my eyes and made my vision fuzzy. My lungs burned, and I focused on not falling down the stairs. Finally at the tenth floor I stopped and sat on the concrete stairs.

 

I needed to think. In ten minutes I've learned that I have a godfather. I've learned that he was my parents best friend, and I’ve learned that I was moving to England. My mind was racing at a thousand miles a minute.

 

"Robyn?" Kate concerned voice echoed through the stairwell.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"What floor did you stop at?"

 

"Ten!"

 

"I'm coming down. Stay there." I heard a door open and close so I assumed she was taking the elevator down. My prediction was confirmed when she opened the tenth floor door. Unless she had learned teleportation, she took the elevator.

 

"Hey, it's ok." Kate sat down next to me and started patting my hair.

 

"I made a complete fool of myself. What if he doesn't want me anymore?" I sobbed.

 

"I explained that you got overwhelmed. It's completely normal. And don't worry, he understood. He's looking forward to meeting you." Kate soothed me.

 

"You did? He is?" I felt a little bit of relief surge through me. "But, what if I get there and he doesn't like me?"

 

"Robyn, he'll like you. Sure you have your quirks, but so does everyone! Who knows, he might be even more quirky than you. Right now, he could be worried about you liking him. After all, he's just been told that he basically has to become a parent to a teenager. And we both know that you won't make it easy on him."

 

I chuckled. "Do you really think he's nervous about meeting me?"

 

"I really do. Now come on, how about we stop at Tim Horton's before I bring you back and you can get one of those iced lemonades you're addicted to." Kate pushed a loose hair behind my ear and smiled at me.

 

I wiped away my tears and gave a small smile too. "Well, if there's lemonade."

 

"And tell you what, let's really celebrate. You're going to be moving to England, so how about one last poutine before you go to the land without poutine."

 

I laughed. "I haven't had poutine in nearly a year. But I guess I can't leave Canada without having it one more time."

 

Kate helped me to my feet and we started to walk to the elevator. As we stood waiting for the doors to open, I turned to Kate. "I'm sorry that I bolted like that. I shouldn't have left you like that."

 

"Oh, Robyn, it's ok! I completely and wholeheartedly understand. Do you really that think you're the first kid to bolt from my office? Though I am impressed. Most people stop running around the 14th floor."

 

I smiled as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Together we took the elevator downstairs and walked to the nearest Tim Horton's which was only a block away.

 

After we were seated with my frozen lemonade, Kate's coffee, one poutine and two plates, we dug in. I savoured the gravy drenched fries and cheese curds. This truly Canadian dish was one thing I'd miss.

 

I guess that there would be a lot of things I'd miss. There are a lot of things I wouldn't miss, such as the road where my parents died, the tree that killed them, and the graveyard, but I would miss the golden Prairies that stretched as far as the eye could see, only matched by the big blue sky that blanketed everything. I would miss the mountains in the west that caused the sunrises and sunsets to be even more beautiful. I didn't know if England had mountains, but even if they did, I'd miss my Rocky Mountains.

 

I'd miss the weird obsession with hockey that everyone seemed to have but that I never really got. I'd miss everyone saying sorry and saying "eh" because yes, that really happens.

 

I'd miss the frigid winters and the warm chinooks that melted all the snow, that would be replaced soon after. I'd miss the hot summers, well, actually no, I wouldn't miss the summers. I don't like being hot. I'd mainly miss the winters with wind chill so cold that your face had to be covered with a scarf to even go to your truck. Though I wouldn't miss the foggy glasses.

 

I wonder what the weather will be like in England. I've heard that it rains a lot there, but what are the winters and summers like? Does it snow alot or get really hot? Do they get hurricanes there? Being in the middle of the Prairies, I never needed to worry about hurricanes, but England's an island. Will I be scared every hurricane season? I don't know.

 

My mind drifted and before I knew it, I was on my last bite. Closing my eyes to remember the taste, I bit into the wet, flavourful fry, and I was actually sad when I had to swallow it.

 

I opened my eyes and saw Kate smiling at me. "Are you ready to go?"

 

"Yeah, let's go."

 

The drive home was once again filled with music. When we got back to the Bley's house, everything started to blend together. The next two weeks just flew by. It didn't take long to pack all my belongings into a carry on bag. I didn't have much in the first place. I spent the rest of my time counting down the hours until we left for the airport. Kate drove me. Before I left, the Bley's gave me a compact umbrella as a going away gift. It was a beautiful shade of royal blue, and I knew I would cherish it.

 

The ride to the Calgary International Airport felt like it took forever and a day, I was so excited and so nervous. Kate drove into the departure dropoff lane and pulled over.

 

"Here's your ticket Robyn, now remember, you have a layover in Toronto for about two hours, then you're off to the Heathrow airport in London. It's an overnight flight, so get as much sleep as you can as you'll be arriving at 8:30am." Kate smiled sweetly at me.

 

"I know, I've basically memorized my schedule. And I know that Sherlock will be waiting for me at the airport with a sign holding my name on it. I know all this." I gave Kate one last smile. "Thank you."

 

"Oh, Robyn, you are so welcome. I wish you best of luck! Call me from London!" Kate gave me one last hug before I walked into the airport.

 

As the sliding door closed behind me, it was as though one chapter was ending, and another was just beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s not nervous. He’s _not_. He’s a bloody adult, of course he’s not nervous, but he can barely take care of himself, how is he supposed to _raise a child_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was my first chapter and im kind of in love with the way i decided to write sherlock’s thought processes? anyways, hope y’all enjoy!!  
> -charlie/deducingontheroof
> 
> I really enjoyed reading this chapter and I think that deducingontheroof did an excellent job on it! I hope you enjoy this long awaited chapter as much as I do! Happy Valentine's Day!  
> \- lover_of_all_awesome_things

Sherlock POV

 

“Mycroft, John and Mary are dead.”

 

The line is silent for a moment before Mycroft laughs — _stop stop don’t laugh at me you whale_ — and dismissively says, “I know you have a flair for the dramatic, brother mine, but you have no need to worry. You knew at the time of relocation that there could be no contact.”

 

“Shut up!” Sherlock barks sharply, “I just received a call from Robyn’s social worker. Her _social worker_ , who informed me that they passed _six bloody months ago_.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Mycroft murmurs, apparently just realizing — _he’s always been slow on the uptake, you can hold this over him for months, stop stop stop don’t make jokes your best friend is dead_ — that Sherlock is not, in fact, being dramatic. “That is rather alarming, isn’t it? Why was I not informed?”

 

“You may be the British government, _brother mine_ , but you are not the Canadian government,” Sherlock snaps, taking out the anger and grief he’s feeling on his brother — _he deserves it he’s your archenemy, no he doesn't, he cares about you, shut up shut up can’t think_.

 

“Canada… that is rather far,” Mycroft admits with a sigh. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sherlock.”

 

“I lost them sixteen years ago, when I put them in too much danger to stay.” Sherlock paces anxiously, fighting the urge to throw the phone at the wall — _stupid Mycroft isn’t helping, make him do something, make him help!_ — “Robyn is coming home. I’m her legal guardian, and she’s coming home.”

 

“You are her godfather, so it is only logical,” Mycroft points out, “What will you do?”

 

“Mycroft, I can't disappoint John," Sherlock insists, a hint of panic creeping into his tone. "Not again. Not ever again.”

 

“Calm down, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells warningly, “You’re going to work yourself into a state.”

 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Sherlock snaps — _he’s right, you’re panicking, you’re going to have a meltdown_ — before sighing. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t raise a child. I’ll ruin her.”

 

“You won’t have to do it alone. You have a family, brother mine. You have support.”

 

Sherlock sighs. “I’m frightened. Caring’s not an advantage, but I _do_ care, I care about her. She’s all I have left of him.”

 

“Is tonight a danger night?” Mycroft asks cautiously.

 

“I’ve been clean for years, you whale,” Sherlock growls — _sixteen years forty nine days eleven hours thirty one minutes, why do you still know that number, drugs don’t control you anymore_.

 

“We both know that I wasn’t talking about the drugs, Sherlock,” Mycroft says softly — _pity disgusting you don’t want that, he’s talking about your brain you know, of course you know, you’re arguing with your own mind, he thinks you’ll have a meltdown, you think you’ll have a meltdown_ — and Sherlock can’t hold back a scowl.

 

His silence is answer enough.

 

“I’ll ensure that Mrs. Hudson checks on you,” Mycroft tells — _too gentle, too caring, he pities you make him stop_ — “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Robyn’s education,” Sherlock manages, “She must receive the best care I can provide. She must be safe.”

 

Mycroft hums his understanding. “I shall speak with the headmaster of Westminster School. It shan’t be a problem for me, although I’m sure they’ll request a conference.”

 

“Whatever, just get her in,” Sherlock tells — _close school, safe, eyes on her at all times, still in danger being near you but you can protect her_ — and hangs up without a farewell. Neither Mycroft nor him dwell on such formalities.

 

He continues pacing, a million thoughts and worries about his impending guardianship running through his mind — _not good enough, not good enough, you’re going to **disappoint john**_ — and he starts to think.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock tries his hardest not to fidget — _you’re an adult, you don’t need to be nervous, just stop it_ — as he waits, his hands slightly crumpling the edges of the paper sign. He’d carefully made the sign the previous night, neat blocky letters spelling out Robyn Hoodson.

 

_not watson, get a hold of yourself, it’s been hoodson for years_

 

He’s not ready.

 

He’s not ready to come face to face with the last living remnant of his best friend, and he’s not ready to be responsible for her — _you can barely take care of yourself, you’re going to raise a child?_ — but he doesn’t have a choice. He owes it to Mary, to John. He owes it to himself, to uphold their legacy and protect their daughter.

 

He spots her long before she spots him. Her mother’s hair, much longer but obviously the same, and John’s eyes. The fire, the determination, it’s all the same — _it’s john john john, no john’s dead_ — and he tries to force a smile as her eyes widen ever so slightly in recognition of the sign.

 

“Robyn Hoodson,” he greets in a smooth tone as she approaches, a bag slung over her shoulder and an umbrella sticking out of her pocket — _unused, a gift? received just before leaving, umbrellas are for mycroft, no don’t be stupid anyone can have an umbrella_ — and clear traces of fatigue on her face. “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Hi,” she says simply, shifting her weight back and forth — _nervous tic? anxiety? no, no, don’t analyze don’t deduce_ — and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock responds slowly, and it’s their conversation on the phone all over again, an interaction lasting less than a minute that had him up all night, trying to determine where he’d gone wrong — _awkward, it’s awkward, you’ve never spoken, say something_ — “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Your parents and I were close.”

 

“They never mentioned you,” Robyn points out, a hint of challenge coming through the anxious energy — _we said no deducing_ — and Sherlock sees so much of John in her.

 

“No, they wouldn’t have,” Sherlock dismisses, — _hiding, not safe, couldn’t talk about you, no no not rude, not hurt_ — “The move to Canada was something long discussed. They left their past here, with me.”

 

She blinks. “Why? Why didn’t they even tell me that I have a godfather?”

 

Sherlock waves her off. “Another time. It’s a long story, and we have things to do today once we return to the flat.” _not return no she’s never been there, that was the wrong word_.

 

“Okay,” she agrees, and easily falls into step next to him as he starts walking through the terminal. “What kind of things?”

 

“I have an appointment at your new school,” Sherlock tells — _not nervous you’re not nervous at all_ — “so I’ll leave you with Mrs. Hudson to get settled in. Once that’s done, we’ll go out to pick up anything you need.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” Robyn asks.

 

“Our landlady,” Sherlock elaborates. 

 

“Oh, alright,” Robyn says, biting her lip — _anxious, leaving her alone, what if something happens_.

 

They fall into a silence somewhere between awkward and comfortable as they leave the terminal, the pair getting a few curious glances — _the famous detective picking up a child at the airport, of course they’re going to stare_ — from passersby. Sherlock hails a taxi with ease, giving his address to the cabbie — _married, two dogs, having an affair with his wife’s sister_ — and loading Robyn’s bag into the boot before joining her in the taxi.

 

“I never thought I’d be in an actual London cab,” Robyn marvels, almost awestruck. “I never thought I’d even leave Canada. I lived there all my life.”

 

“You weren’t born in Canada,” Sherlock corrects before he can catch himself — _tactless, rude, don’t correct her._

 

“What?”

 

“You weren’t born there. You were born here, in London,” Sherlock continues. “You wouldn’t remember, as your parents moved when you were little more than an infant.”

 

“Why didn’t they tell me,” she murmurs, looking down. “There’s so much that they didn’t tell me.”

 

“I’ll explain it to you soon, Robyn,” Sherlock promises, attempting to smile reassuringly. “Your parents had a reason for everything they did.”

 

“I feel like I didn’t know them at all,” Robyn confesses, her eyes glimmering — _no don’t cry ugh i don’t know how to deal with crying_ — and Sherlock awkwardly pats her shoulder.

 

“I promise you, regardless of the lies they told, you knew exactly who they were,” Sherlock insists, “Your mother was kind and passionate, and wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way. Your father—”

 

He falters — _john, john, john was everything, he was brave, he saved me_ — and his voice cracks, unable to talk about John, even all these years later.

 

“You were their best friend, right?” Robyn asks.

 

“I— I was,” Sherlock agrees.

 

“Then… if you say that they lied for a reason, I’ll believe you.”

 

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock calls as he lets the door slam shut behind them.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, I wasn’t expecting you this early! Flights are never on time, you know. I haven’t finished any of the dusting,” Mrs. Hudson prattles as she comes down the stairs, smiling kindly as she spots Robyn. “Hello, love! Welcome to London!”

 

“Robyn, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, Robyn Hoodson,” Sherlock introduces, making an effort to be polite.

 

Mrs. Hudson gasps softly, a hand flying to her mouth, and Sherlock stares at her — _surprised, touched? she knew robyn was coming, why is she surprised_.

 

“Hoodson?” Mrs. Hudson asks — _oh its the name of course its the name_ —  and her smile widens as tears bead up in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Sherlock… you never said…”

 

“Go on upstairs, Robyn, I imagine Mrs. Hudson will need a moment to compose herself,” Sherlock tells, handing Robyn her bag without looking at her. Robyn hesitates, shifting back and forth on her heels, before grabbing the bag and disappearing up the stairs.

 

Once she’s gone, Sherlock allow Mrs. Hudson to hug him tightly, softly rubbing her shoulder.

 

“It wasn’t safe to say at the time, of course,” Sherlock murmurs, “but when Watson was no longer an option, John wouldn’t settle for anything less than the names of the most important people in his life.”

 

Mrs. Hudson sniffles as she pulls away, wiping at her eye with her sleeve. “Go on up, then, don’t leave that poor dear alone with the mess.”

 

Sherlock takes the out, never one to stay around crying people, and takes the stairs two at a time, strolling into the lounge to see Robyn sifting through papers on the mantle.

 

“Sorry!!” she apologises, dropping the papers as she realises that he’s there. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosy!”

 

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock brushes her off. “You live here too. If I don’t want you looking at something, I won’t leave it lying around.”

 

“Sorry,” she repeats, looking flustered.

 

Sherlock sighs. “It’s fine. Just— your room is up one more floor. Door at the top of the stairs. I’m going out, but I’ll send Mrs. Hudson up with tea. After a flight that long, I’d be shocked if you’re not hungry.”

 

“Thank you,” Robyn says with an anxious smile, heading up the stairs. Sherlock watches her walk for a moment — _she walks just like john, she looks just like mary, protect her, protect her, don't fail her_ — before winding his scarf around his neck and heading back downstairs.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m going out,” he shouts over his shoulder, “Robyn’s feeling peckish.”

 

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson calls back, trying and failing to sound cross. “Just this once, for the poor dove.”

 

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Sherlock points out with a smirk. “Ta.”

 

He swoops out the door before she can argue, hailing a taxi with his normal ease.

 

“Westminster School,” he tells the cabbie — _never married, string of failed relationships, lives with three no four roommates in stockwell, dealing coke, don't want it don't want it, ugh its cut anyways look at his shoelaces_ — as he settles back into his seat.

 

“You’re that big shot detective, ain’t ya? Whatchu goin’ there for?” the cabbie asks curiously as he pulls away from the curb.

 

“Maybe I want to take a class,” Sherlock tells sarcastically.

 

“Ain’t you a bit old for that, guv?”

 

“Stop talking, you’re lowering the IQ of the entire street,” Sherlock snaps, sliding the panel separating them closed.

 

The cabbie doesn’t say another word to Sherlock, and leaves him standing on the pavement the second he hands over his money.

 

_that was rude, bit not good, shut up john_

 

Shoving his thoughts and anxieties aside — _what i wouldn’t give for a cigarette_ — Sherlock tucks his hands into his pockets and strides into the school, posture confident and aura arrogant.

 

“I have an appointment with a Ms. MacElroy,” Sherlock says bluntly to the receptionist, who hardly bothers to look up from her magazine.

 

“Up the stairs, third door on your left,” she tells apathetically — _three kids, two of them enrolled in this school, husband is some sort of banker, sees a lover on and off, lover bought her that watch_.

 

“Lovely watch,” Sherlock says dryly, “I’m sure your husband thinks it’s worth a lot less than it is. Bremont’s pieces are exquisite, aren’t they?”

 

He leaves her flushed and stuttering, confidence renewed by the secretary’s humiliation — _be nice, sherlock! nope, make me_ — and makes his way up the stairs to an office. He knocks twice before entering, not waiting for a response.

 

“Ms. MacElroy, I presume,” Sherlock greets smoothly, extending a hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Right on time, Mr. Holmes,” she smiles, her voice reedy and distinctly Scottish. “Have a seat.”

 

“Sherlock, please. Mr. Holmes is my brother.”

 

“Of course, Sherlock,” she accepts, smiling warmly. “I spoke with your brother this morning. Everything’s in place for Miss Hoodson to begin classes as early as tomorrow, we just have some paperwork to go over with you. Would you mind confirming her full name and date of birth for me?”

 

“Robyn Hoodson, born 22 May, 2015,” Sherlock recites quickly, “Born in London to John and Mary Hoodson.”

 

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “And what is your relationship to Miss Hoodson?”

 

He stares back at her, daring her to challenge him. “I’m her godfather, and her legal guardian. Her parents passed approximately six months ago.”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she apologises.

 

“Don’t apologise unless you’re the one responsible for their death. Your sympathy is unnecessary, unless it is relevant to the paperwork,” Sherlock snaps. “What else do you need?”

 

She doesn’t so much as waver at his harsh words. “Mr. Holmes had most of her information forwarded from her last school, so I’ll just get you to fill out this,” she slides him a thick packet, “with her updated address and emergency contacts.”

 

“Textbooks? Uniforms?” Sherlock questions.

 

“All paid for by Mr. Holmes. He wasn’t sure about the sizes, so give us a ring if you need an exchange. I’ve just popped it all in a bag for you.” She motions to a brimming rucksack, and Sherlock stands and shoulders it.

 

“Do you need this right away, or shall I send it along with her tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow’s perfectly fine, Sherlock,” she confirms with a thin smile. “I’m looking forward to having Miss Hoodson in my classroom.”

 

“Thank you for your efficiency, Ms. MacElroy,” Sherlock says, attempting to sound genuine — _i am genuine, i am, do i sound sarcastic?_ — “Robyn shall be ready to start classes tomorrow.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. I’ll be seeing you!”

 

“And you.” Sherlock tucks the forms into his jacket. “Afternoon.”

 

* * *

 

As Sherlock enters the flat, he’s greeted by the sound of laughter.

 

“Already?” he mumbles to himself, ascending quickly and entering the lounge to see Robyn and Mrs. Hudson playing Cluedo.

 

“It’s so cool how you modified this game to work with only two people!” Robyn enthuses as she spots him.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, why must you drag this rubbish game out constantly?” Sherlock complains, scowling at the board.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chuckles, “You’re just bothered that you can’t win!”

 

“The game doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock protests.

 

“Mrs. Hudson was telling me about that time you played with my dad,” Robyn giggles, “The victim’s the murderer, eh?”

 

“It was the only plausible explanation,” Sherlock grumbles, plopping down on the sofa and crossing his arms. “It’s hardly my fault that the game doesn’t follow the rules.”

 

“How was the meeting, then, love?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

 

“The secretary has expensive taste, both in accessories and lovers.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson clucks, “Is that the kind of first impression you want to make?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock sniffs petulantly — _not my fault, couldn’t stop myself, can’t turn my brain off_.

 

“How do you know that?” Robyn asks curiously. “Did she tell you?”

 

“Hardly.” Sherlock smirks. “I’m a consulting detective, only one in the world. I observe the world around me. I see the facts in things overlooked by most.”

 

“That’s so cool!” Robyn exclaims with a grin.

 

“Hardly,” Mrs. Hudson sniffs, “Sherlock’s very talented, of course, but he tends to rub people the wrong way. Really, Sherlock, confronting the poor woman about an affair?”

 

“It was obvious,” Sherlock defends, rolling his eyes. “Are you quite finished with that bloody game, Mrs. Hudson? I’m taking Robyn shopping.”

 

“Oh, can’t that wait for another day? The poor dove’s knackered! We can finish up later, love.”

 

“You were winning, anyways,” Robyn says playfully, stifling a yawn — _starting to get more comfortable, good, she feels safe, keep her safe_ — and stands up. “I think I will head to bed, actually, if that’s alright.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock accepts smoothly, “We can go out later in the week.”

 

“Where will we be going?” Robyn asks.

 

“Ever heard of Oxford Street, Robyn?” Sherlock asks, the corners of his lips twitching up into a slight grin.

 

“Of course!” Robyn bites her lip — _definitely a nervous tic, stop bloody deducing her_ — “Isn’t that really expensive, though?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock assures, grinning wide as he thinks about the palmed card in his pocket, “We’ll get whatever you want. My brother’s paying.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, “Must you always provoke him?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says with great satisfaction, “It is my greatest joy in life.”


End file.
